The Prophecy
by Vellor The Ancient
Summary: Prophecies are nothing more than words spoken from unwilling lips. Given no more power than the influence they have on the actions of those who hear them.


Over 14 billion years ago there was nothing.

In an event humans know as the big bang, nothing became something. Light filled the void, stars formed. Galaxies emerged from the empty black that had been before.

Into this beings came. They did not exist as humans exist. They are something else. Beings who's existence is beyond our understating.

Some might call them gods, though they were not without limits. Some might call them spirits, or celestials. Some would even call them angels.

They do not care. For to care they would have to imagine, to have thoughts we could understand.

They are stewards of the creator. Given duties to ensure the creator's plan for creation unfolds. Some ward a lonely planet from death, from cosmic rays burning it to a cinder. From solar flares that might harm it. From celestial bodies that might impact it.

Others pay closer attention to the actions of the humans upon that world. To guide the course of history along a specific path.

A lottery win here. A storm striking there. An ice age. A shower of meteors. The way the wind blows. The way a single drop of rain falls might hold the entire attion of one of these beings.

Still others quide the course of history more closely. It is these beings who guide the words called prophecies. These prophecies have no power of themselves. They are nothing more than words spoken from a chosen tool at a chosen time.

The strings of fate are many. Each word chosen is done so deliberately.

Man has free will, but a few carefully chosen words make us dance like puppets from a hand on high.

* * *

"As the seventh month dies..."

* * *

And so the die is cast. The wheel off fate turns once more as the creator wishes.

* * *

A curse is cast as a man attempts to deny his fate, not knowing that in doing so he seals it. Flashing accross the distance with a sound of rushing wind and a flash of green.

A woman falls, the life stolen from her as she refuses to watch her son die before her.

A second time the wand is raised. A second time the words are uttered. A second time the sound of rushing wind is accompanied by a flash of green.

This time magic ancient and potent is invoked. A life sacrified. A life saved.

A small child cries in the ruins of a destroyed home. His mother's body rests lifeless at his feet. The enemy he is prophesised to defeat is reduced to a spirit and cast out to hide in the wilderness, leaching off the lives of vermin and pests as he plots a return to power.

A small cut ruins the soft perfection of the child's forehead. The mark his enemy placed upon him when he decided this child in particular was his greatest threat and in doing so sealed his fate.

Hours later an elderly wizard, wise and powerful, thinks upon words so carefully chosen. He thinks to bring the prophecy to a favored conclusion, to aid it.

Above him beings bend their timeless gaze down and watch as this wizard moves according to their will as surely as a marionette is guided by the strings held by it's master.

* * *

As a boy places a ruined diary in front of his headmaster more is revealed. The headmaster has discovered Tom Riddle's path to imortality.

In his mind clues line up and he begins to suspect that another portion of Riddle's fractured soul lies within the boy's iconic scar. It would answer many questions the boy's existance and abilities have raised.

Late nights are spent going over the words of the prophecy and an inescapable conclusion is reached.

The boy must die at the hands of his enemy. Only then can Riddle be vanquished at last.

The headmaster ponders on the boy's cloak and the wand he took from his former lover. A plan starts to form, if only the stone could be found, perhaps the boy would not need to be martyred. Dreams long abandoned are stirred once more.

He does not know that it is merely a matter of time before he finds the stone, not a forelorn hope.

* * *

More words are uttered from unwilling lips. A boy is reminded of the potency of prophecies as a man transforms into a rat and flees. It is cemented in his mind that the words spoken are chains tying one to an inescapable fate.

Just as they were meant to.

Above him immortal beings of spirit and will watch as a boy is guided towards the belief that he can not avoid the path ahead.

* * *

A ring is found, and set in it a stone that many would say is nothing more than a myth.

He can't help himself. Charms designed to enthrall a would be thief mingle with dreams from boyhood shared with a lover and a long buried hope that a boy might not have to be martyred for a world he should have grown up in. A hand is raised and a ring is placed upon a finger.

Instantly a curse strikes. Decades of knowledge enable the wizard to trap it until his potions master can confine it to his hand and strengthen his flagging spirit to raly against it. Still it leaches at his strength.

No longer is the great headmaster a match for Riddle.

Eventually even with the charms guarding him from it and the potions that he consumes to strengthen his spirit, this curse will bring him down, inch by excruciating inch.

He had meant to guide the boy towards accepting his fate, but now he must martyr himself. It is only a matter of time before either the curse wins, or he is killed in a battle.

This too must serve the ultimate goal.

Severus must be the headmaster after him. He must have the standing to be given unquestioned authority over Hogwarts, lest Riddle place someone far worse in charge.

And the Wand must find the right master. So too must the Stone. The Cloak already is the Chosen One's.

If events link up properly then the Master of Death can survive Riddle destroying the anchor he didn't mean to make. The prophecy is looked at in a new light.

It truly is destiny the eldery wizard muses as he looks forward to the next great adventure.

Beings who were created from the very echoes of creation itself would laugh at the irony if they were capable of humor. As it is they merely wait until they must act again in defence of the creator's plans, their vigillance unending.

* * *

As the chosen one faces down his foe, the words echo in his mind. He knows his fate is neigh. He does not raise his wand, for he knows in his heart that this is destined. That nothing he can do can stop it. For he has experienced the power of prophecy first hand. A cloak moves restlessly, a wand resists the magic cast through it ever so slightly, a stone burns with a cold fire as it is dropped.

Once more the sound of rushing wind is accompanied by a flash of green.

A boy dies, but does not die. A shred of a soul is destroyed, only one anchor remains. Riddle believes he has finally freed himself from the accursed prophecy, not knowing that the mere words forced from an unwilling woman's lips have bound his fate as surely as chains of iron, dragging him towards an inescapable conclusion.

* * *

Once more a marked boy and a damaged adult face each other. Riddle knows fear, for his last anchor has been destroyed and the boy he thought he finally killed has returned. He covers his fear with rage as he has always done.

The boy is calm. He knows how this ends. The prophecy is clear. The path ahead forged in stone.

Spells flash across the distance between them. A wand refuses once more to strike down it's master.

A boy marches on into manhood. A damaged soul is laid to his final rest.

Beings who have existed since the beginning watch. If they were capable of it, they might find it ammusing how powerful mere words spoken from unwilling lips can be.

Instead they feel the closest thing to satisfaction that is possible for them. The creator's plan is once more assured.


End file.
